I have been down in the dumps. Below the dumps actually, I think I was dropped from a dump truck at the city tip, rolled by an earthmover, fired by an incinerator and spat out into a flock of seagulls that saw fit to pelt the remains of me with bird doo-doo.
I’ve heard about people being depressed before. I have seen it too. Lord knows how I watch my Dad going through it all the time. I knew (and know now) in my mind that it really isn’t as bad as I am making it out to be, that things will change for the better and that people don’t (well, not everyone) hate me. But over the last week, while I knew all that, I didn’t feel it. I could not, for the life of me, convince myself that it would be alright. I thought I was toast, that no one would ever touch me again. That I was a horrible despicable person that didn’t deserve to have friends and that needed to hermit away because my very presence would bring others down. Because being around other people while are having a good time is like burning your arm because you like the heat of the fire.
And there was That Thing That I Did.
Seared in my memory like a brand on the back of my brain. White hot, every aspect of it cascading through my consciousness. At any point in time I was immediately and acutely aware of the pain inflicted, the questions raised about my own self-awareness and deceipt. A feeling that transcends time; as present now as it was 5 minutes, 3 days or a week ago.
Two things have happened though to start pulling me out of this spiral of pity, doubt and useless introspection. Firstly, I caught up on some sleep. Not just a sleep in. A fucking epic, break-breaking lie in. I didn’t even realise I was that tired.
Secondly, I spent a day out of my hermit-crab shell. I forced myself to honour a date planned a couple of weeks ago. Sunday afternoon movies with an old childhood friend (the Singing Teacher). In the end, the movies were the crowning jewel to a great walk through the streets of the city; checking out the latest and greatest street art hidden in the nooks and crannies of the alleyways that make this city great. I found some great new ideas for things to get me out of the house in the near future: one being an exposition on Photography and Time by the National Gallery of Victoria and another being Shakespeare’s “A Comedy of Errors” that is playing in town and screaming for a visit.
Then tonight, I helped a friend move his tiny number of boxes from one house to the next. We went for a beer afterwards, his way of saying thanks. The man is spastically (a word I use not for it’s meaning but for it’s strength outside the context of its meaning) good-looking. His smooth manner, disarming French accent and friendly demeanor probably mean that he could talk to anyone and make them feel relaxed. Our conversation helped my mojo find its way to that crystal meth injector tucked away somewhere near my hypothalymus and gave me a jolted reminder of what it feels like to be king of the world. To be top of the town, confident in most things I say, who I am and what I do. It made me feel a little bit more normal again.
Image: Los Cardinalos/flickr